


The Washerwoman

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [84]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Bean nighe, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Folklore, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prophecy, Robin Hood References, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, Unresolved Sexual Tension, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12488844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Her dark eyes held such an aching sorrow that the expression almost stole his breath, and there was something oddly familiar about her, though Merlin was certain he would have remembered if he had seen her before.Written for Camelot Drabble Angst Month Prompt #285: Sorrow and #286: Anguish.





	1. Chapter 1

 

They made camp at the edge of the woods, having decided – not without some reluctance – that whatever threat awaited them inside was better dealt with in daylight, after a good night’s sleep.  
  
“Take the buckets and fetch us some water,” Arthur ordered Merlin, swinging down from his saddle. “Gareth, Gaheris, go find some firewood. The rest of us will lay out the bedrolls and prepare the meat.”  
  
“Yes, sire.”  
  
There was a stream not far away; Merlin could hear it burbling through the trees. He picked up the buckets and headed in that direction, picking his way carefully through the tangled undergrowth. Several times he almost tripped over his own feet; he wished he dared summon a mage-light for guidance, but with Arthur and his knights only a few feet away it was too much of a risk. The last thing he needed was for one of them to come and investigate.  
  
At last, he stumbled upon a game trail leading down to the bank. The trees were thinner there, giving way to a grassy slope some distance from the water’s edge, and in the fading light Merlin could just make out the twisting path of the brook where it cut its way between the rocky banks.  
  
There was already someone standing by the river.  
  
She was tall for a woman, wearing a delicately embroidered white gown that clung to the outline of her slender body. Her hair was long, a rippling golden curtain that fell to her waist, her skin the colour of pale milk. She had been crouching beside the water, where she appeared to have been washing something; when she turned her face towards him, it was obvious that she had been crying.  
  
“Er, hello,” Merlin said, when he had recovered from his shock. “Are you all right?”  
  
“My son is dead,” the woman answered, her voice hollow. “I am washing the clothes that he will wear to his grave.”  
  
“I’m so sorry.” Stepping closer, Merlin crouched down on the bank beside her, dropping the buckets into the mud. “Here, let me help you.”  
  
She allowed him to take the shirt from her hands. It was a fine garment, expertly made, and roughly similar in size to the ones that Arthur usually wore. Merlin frowned. The fabric was too rich for a poor village family, and besides, he would have thought the woman too young to have a grown-up son.  
  
“How did he die?” he asked, turning towards her. She was seated on a rock by the side of the stream now, though he couldn't recall seeing her move. Her dark eyes held such an aching sorrow that the expression almost stole his breath, and there was something oddly familiar about her, though Merlin was certain he would have remembered if he had seen her before. “Your son. Was he sick?”  
  
“He will fall in battle,” she said, and the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck prickled sharply at the change in tense. “All that he could have been will be lost.”  
  
“I don’t understand. I thought you said he was dead.”  
  
“He is.” She got gracefully to her feet, and bent to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. The brush of her lips was like ice. “You are kind, Emrys. There are not many would have offered to wash the grave-clothes of a dead man. But you cannot save him.”  
  
A chill spread through Merlin’s veins, starting from the point where her lips had touched him, but before he could demand answers the woman disappeared. The shirt Merlin had been clutching vanished too, dissolving into dust and slipping through his hands like air.  
  
He was alone.  
  
  


 

*

 

  
  
Arthur looked up when Merlin stumbled back into camp, his brows drawing together immediately when he saw that Merlin wasn’t carrying any water.  
  
“Really, Merlin, you’re one of the worst servants I’ve ever— ” He stopped, peering into Merlin’s face. “Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.”  
  
“I…” Merlin opened his mouth to explain, but found he didn’t know what to say. His gaze caught on Arthur’s face in the firelight: the straight, autocratic brows, the fine golden hair. He wasn’t wearing a white shirt, but the resemblance was unmistakeable. “I’m not exactly sure. There was…I saw…”  
  
He trailed off. He couldn’t exactly confess to having seen the prince’s mother down by the stream; at best, Arthur would think him mad, at worst, he’d suspect sorcery. But if it had truly been Queen Ygraine who had appeared to him, then Arthur could be in danger. Surely it was Merlin's duty to warn him if he could?  
  
The prince raised his eyebrows expectantly, clearly impatient. “You saw…?” he prompted, when Merlin didn’t speak. Merlin swallowed.  
  
“I thought…I thought I saw a bear,” he said lamely, feeling like a coward. Arthur stared at him incredulously for a moment, then broke into a loud laugh and clapped his hand on Merlin's shoulder.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. “It was probably your own shadow. Honestly, you’re as jumpy as a feral cat, sometimes.”  
  
Merlin smiled weakly, unable to help glancing over his shoulder towards the stream. A cold breeze was blowing through the campsite: it might have been his imagination, but he thought he could hear the sound of a woman crying.  
  
“You know me, sire,” he said, shivering a little. “Always jumping at shadows.”  
  
Arthur cut a sidelong glance at him, then, sharp and assessing, and for a moment Merlin wondered if he could hear it too.  
  
“Bors, go down to the stream and get that water, will you?” Arthur said, tugging Merlin closer to the fire. “I trust you, at least, won’t be frightened off by imaginary wildlife.”  
  
“Yes, sire.”  
  
Merlin watched him go, curling up next to Arthur as Gareth handed him some meat. If he pressed a little closer to the prince than was strictly necessary, well. It was a cold night, and he knew none of the others would blame him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emrys could not save Arthur, but maybe Merlin could.

 

The ambush came before dawn, while the majority of the party were still sleeping. The reports had spoken of a band of brigands, living in the heart of the forest but afraid to breach its borders, preying on travellers and small hunting parties that ventured in too deep. They had not spoken of half a hundred men, armed to the teeth and waiting to capture the young prince of Camelot, and no sooner had Merlin opened his eyes than he knew –– too late –– that it was a trap.  
  
“Merlin,” Arthur said as he sat up, in that low, calm voice he used when things were about to turn very, very ugly. “Nice of you to join us.”  
  
They were surrounded. Arthur had drawn his sword, perhaps half in his sleep, and was angled halfway between Merlin and the leader of the group, who was dressed in green and had a crossbow aimed squarely at the prince’s chest. No one was moving. It was the kind of scene which lay precariously balanced on the edge of total mayhem but which had not yet reached the tipping point.  
  
“We have no quarrel with you,” Arthur said, still so very calmly. “Let’s talk about this like civilised men.”  
  
Merlin’s magic boiled beneath his skin, ready to lash out in defence of his prince, but long practice at keeping his powers hidden made him hold back even as he glanced around the clearing in search of another way. There were too many of them to take out at once, and they were too close to strike with some kind of elemental disaster. Even conjuring a tornado, which might have been his instinctive response under other circumstances, would be too clumsy with Arthur and his knights so close.  
  
_He will die in battle_ , the ghost of Ygraine had said. _You cannot save him._  
  
“We have nothing to discuss,” said the man in green, quite simply; and then the battle was joined.  
  
Arthur managed to avoid the first arrow by deflecting the crossbow with his sword; the bolt sailed past him and thudded into a nearby tree, narrowly missing one of the knights. A moment later, the prince had launched himself at the leader of the group, and the fighting began in earnest. Behind him, Merlin could hear the knights scrambling to their feet with shouts of defiance, and the ring of steel where sword met sword. He, however, only had eyes for Arthur, who was struggling with the brigand leader for control of his sword. As he watched, the prince shoved his attacker back with one shoulder and wrenched free, but not quick enough: the man darted back, drawing his own blade and parrying Arthur’s thrust with what even Merlin recognised as considerable skill, forcing the prince to take a step back.  
  
“Merlin, get back!” Arthur bellowed. Merlin hadn’t even realised he was on his feet, hands clenched into fists at his sides, but Arthur must have spotted him. “Stay out of this!”  
  
“Not likely,” Merlin muttered. He cast around for a weapon, sidestepping a pair of fighters as they barrelled past him, their swords flashing like lightning. His eyes fell on the metal ladle, still in the soup-pot. It wasn’t much, but it would do in a pinch. He grabbed it and held it out in front of his body the way Arthur had taught him, and entered the melee.  
  
The altercation was short-lived. Armed with his makeshift weapon, Merlin knocked back a few of the attackers who came at him, and a few surreptitious spells took care of several more. Arthur and his knights were fighting well, as they had been trained to do, but even they couldn’t hold up against such odds forever.  
  
Merlin had always known that, if it came right down to it, he would rather expose his magic and be put to death than allow Arthur to die if he could save him. That was a choice he had made long ago. But Arthur seemed determined not to make it easy for him. He and the green-clad leader were battling fiercely, neither of them willing to give ground. They were too quick and too closely matched for spell-work, and Merlin was afraid to try anything for fear of distracting the prince at a crucial moment. But he couldn’t just stand there: the longer the battle went on, the greater the chance that the sidhe’s prediction would come true.  
  
Gathering himself, Merlin extended a hand, eyes narrowing as he concentrated on the brigand leader. “ _Áscrence_ ,” he hissed. Power raced through his veins, leaping across the space between them to curl around the attacker’s legs— and did nothing.  
  
“ _Áscrence_ ,” Merlin said again. Again, nothing happened. The man in green turned to glance at him, a fleeting look but one which spoke volumes. He was smiling.  
  
Merlin dropped his ladle. Either the man was a sorcerer himself, or he was being protected by one: either way, Ygraine’s ghost had been right. Emrys could not save Arthur.  
  
Metal rang against metal, and Merlin heard Arthur curse. Little by little, the prince was being driven back, back into the circle of the camp where his men were fighting for their lives. Another blow; Arthur parried, but only just, and then the man in green was sweeping his feet from under him, and he fell back onto the grass, the brigand’s sword drawing back in preparation for the killing blow.  
  
“No!”  
  
Heart in his throat, Merlin flung himself forward. Arthur yelled at him yet again to stay back, his face twisted into an expression of horror even as the sword came down, but Merlin couldn’t hear him over the sound of Ygraine’s anguished sobs, now echoing in his ears in time to his pulse, every one of them filled with pain. Without his magic, his hands were tied. If there was nothing he could do but put himself bodily between Arthur and danger, so be it.  
  
Emrys could not save Arthur, but maybe Merlin could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t ask me to explain it,” Arthur said, through gritted teeth, “because I can’t. But I know what I saw. You were dead, and then you weren’t."

 

Merlin came to slowly, which, frankly, was more than he had ever expected to do again. His side ached, but not as though it had been pierced by a blade: more as if he had bruised his ribs by falling against the balustrade, a deep ache but not a life-threatening injury.  
  
“You’re awake.”  
  
The voice, as familiar as it was unexpected, made Merlin’s eyes fly open. He was lying on his back inside a makeshift tent, Arthur seated cross-legged on the ground beside him. The prince was only visible in profile, but from what Merlin could see he didn’t look happy.  
  
“Tell me, Merlin,” Arthur said, the muscles of his jaw flexing as he spoke. “What part of ‘stay back’ is so difficult to comprehend?”  
  
“Um.” Merlin tried to sit up and groaned as his muscles protested. “The part where I’m supposed to do as you say?”  
  
With a scowl, Arthur laid his hand flat on Merlin’s chest and shoved him none too gently back to his pallet. “You’re a servant, you idiot! You're supposed to do as you're told! What the hell were you thinking, throwing yourself in front of a sword like that?”  
  
Merlin winced a little at the volume. His back hurt, his ribs hurt, and his head— his head definitely hurt. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a giant and lost. Multiple times.  
  
“Believe me, I won’t do it again,” he muttered. “Since I clearly can’t expect any gratitude for saving your life.”  
  
“ _Gratitude_!” Arthur practically snarled. “You expect me to be grateful when you— when I thought— ”  
  
He pushed himself abruptly to his feet and stalked across to the tent opening, running a frustrated hand through his hair. When he next spoke, he had his back turned to Merlin, his arms folded protectively across his chest.  
  
“You died, Merlin. For a moment there, you were dead. I saw you die.”  
  
Frowning, Merlin looked down at himself. His various aches and pains aside, he seemed remarkably, well, alive for a dead person. “Arthur…”  
  
“Don’t ask me to explain it,” Arthur said, through gritted teeth, “because I can’t. But I know what I saw. You were dead, and then you weren’t. And when Robin and his men realised you had come back to life— ”  
  
“Robin?”  
  
“The cheerful fellow who nearly stabbed me, Merlin. Do keep up.” Although Arthur’s words were light, his tone was anything but, and he didn’t turn to look at Merlin as he went on. “When they realised you weren’t dead, they stopped fighting and offered us shelter here in their camp until you woke. Apparently, they’re under the impression that you’re someone rather important.”  
  
Merlin swallowed hard. Arthur sounded like he was waiting for Merlin to deny the accusation, but if Robin did have magic, as Merlin suspected, then chances were he and his followers knew about Emrys. At least they'd stopped trying to kill Arthur now that they knew who he was, but Merlin couldn’t help feeling like maybe he’d stepped out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire.  
  
When he said nothing, Arthur huffed out a breath and dropped his arms, his shoulders straightening. “Right,” he said, shaking his head. “I suppose that says it all, really.”  
  
He didn’t look back when he walked away.  


  

 

*

  
  
Merlin’s recovery was rapid—more so than he thought he deserved, really—but it seemed to take forever until he had regained his strength, even if it was only a matter of hours. The other knights gave him a wide berth when he emerged from the tent, taking their cue from Arthur and treating him with a wary respect that bordered on distrust. It hurt, more so than he'd expected, although he supposed he ought to be grateful that he was still alive at all.  
  
Then again, he thought, a trifle hysterically. If he really couldn’t die, what could Arthur do to him, exactly? Bore him stupid? Yell him into submission? He was untouchable.  
  
Untouchable. For some reason, the word made his blood run cold. Yes, he was untouchable all right, freakish even in the magical world. Most normal creatures could die, even magical ones, though they were usually harder to kill than most. So what the hell did that make him?  
  
They spent exactly one night in the brigands’ camp, which was all that Arthur would allow them before they were on their way. He and Robin seemed to have gotten over their initial meeting and become firm friends, which Merlin might have found amusing if the other man hadn’t almost killed the prince, and taken Merlin’s life into the bargain. It didn’t matter that death was apparently not a permanent state for him; he still wasn’t about to trust someone who thought stabbing people with a sword was an appropriate conversational opener.  
  
Robin apparently guessed as much, or perhaps he didn’t trust Merlin, either, because when he approached him to say his goodbyes he remained at a respectful distance, giving Merlin a tiny bow.  
  
“Emrys,” he said. “I would like to apologise for attacking you and your king. I did not realise who I was dealing with until it was too late.”  
  
“You’d be surprised how often that happens to me, actually,” Merlin said drily. He glanced over at Arthur, who was watching the two of them with his arms folded, his face unreadable. “Hopefully there’s no permanent damage done.”  
  
Robin followed his gaze. “He will forgive you,” he said confidently. “He was most grieved indeed when he thought you dead; he came closer to killing me than any mortal man has any right to.”  
  
Well, that explained one thing, at least. But somehow, Merlin had difficulty believing that Arthur had been as shaken as the other man’s words suggested. “He certainly doesn’t seem very upset now,” he said, scowling.  
  
Robin only smiled, a hint of cold amusement in his eyes.  
  
“Give him time,” he said. “The two of you have much to accomplish before the sidhe’s tale comes true.”


	4. Epilogue: The Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The campfire was burning low, but there was still enough light for him to see the way Merlin’s shoulders hunched at the sound of his name, and without warning Arthur felt the anger inside him break, as clean and damning as a twig in the deep woods. “I think we need to talk.”

 

It wasn’t until they were bedding down for the night that Arthur began to think in terms of practicalities. The knights had been increasingly edgy all day, their hands straying to their swords more often than not, and it didn’t matter that Merlin had been quiet since they set out, his head down and his hands held limply at his sides – they were all too aware of what he was capable of.  
  
“Tristram, you’ll keep first watch,” Arthur said, and began arranging the camp to his satisfaction. The knights he placed in a half-circle, evenly spaced; Merlin’s bedroll was dragged between his own and the fire.  
  
“Are you sure that’s wise, sire?” Gaheris asked, giving the blankets a doubtful look, but he subsided when Arthur sent him a flat-eyed stare that said more than any reprimand. Merlin, perhaps recognising obedience as the better part of valour, went where he was bid without complaint, seeming not to notice that he was hemmed in on all sides by well-trained men with swords.  
  
Not that they could do much damage anyway.  
  
For all of Arthur’s caution, Merlin didn’t seem to have any plans to run. He lay curled at the prince’s side, his legs drawn up so tightly that their bodies barely touched, and were it not for the tension in his spine Arthur would almost have believed he was asleep. The urge to reach out and touch him was almost as powerful as the urge to throttle him, and he clenched his fists to keep from doing either. There were too many questions between them for short-cuts: either they would have it out, or it would be over, but either way things could never go back to the way they were.  
  
“Merlin,” he said, when the others’ voices had died down and only the sounds of the forest remained. The campfire was burning low, but there was still enough light for him to see the way Merlin’s shoulders hunched at the sound of his name, and without warning Arthur felt the anger inside him break, as clean and damning as a twig in the deep woods. “I think we need to talk.”  
  
There was a faint snort, and Merlin shifted. “I think the time for talking is over, don’t you?”  
  
“You owe me an explanation.”  
  
Merlin let out a laugh that was closer to a sob. “You know as much as I do,” he said. “He stabbed me, I died, I came back to life. What else is there to explain?”  
  
“Then– you do have magic?”  
  
“Yes.” He let out a quiet breath and relaxed a little, as if admitting it out loud was a relief. “But I swear, I’ve only ever used it for you.”  
  
There was a long silence, during which Arthur remembered a lot of puzzling things that all of a sudden made sense. He also remembered of the fear in Merlin’s eyes when he’d stepped in front of the blade; the way the pyre smoke reeked for days; the solid thud of an axe meeting flesh.  
  
It was second nature, somehow, to move closer; he settled a hand on Merlin’s hip, and when that didn’t feel like enough tugged him closer still, pressing his forehead against Merlin’s back.  
  
“How many times— ?”  
  
“Enough,” Merlin admitted. “Enough that I’m surprised I haven’t died before now, actually.” His voice lowered, sounding sheepish. “There were a couple of close calls.”  
  
Arthur sighed. That told him more than he wanted to know, really, and it certainly made his next step glaringly obvious. “I don’t suppose you’d leave, if I told you to.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Not even just until I'm king?”  
  
For a moment, Merlin hesitated, but then he shook his head. “It’s my job to protect you, Arthur. I can’t just _leave_. There are— ” He took a breath. “There are things you don’t know, things a sword can’t protect you from.”  
  
_Like you,_ Arthur thought, but he didn’t say it. “My father won’t be happy about it," he warned. "There may be…consequences.”  
  
Just because Merlin couldn’t be killed by steel, didn’t mean he was immune to fire, or plague, or beheadings. It didn’t mean there weren’t a thousand other ways Uther could punish him for what he had done, for what he _was_.  
  
“I can take care of myself.”  
  
“You can’t take care of _me_ , let alone yourself,” Arthur corrected. Then, when Merlin made to protest, he blurted, “I don’t want to watch him to hurt you.”  
  
It was easier to say such things into the back of Merlin’s neck than to his face, to let his mouth brush against Merlin’s nape and pretend it was an accident than to know Merlin’s answering shudder for what it was.  
  
“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, tangling a hand with one of Arthur’s own. “I did want to tell you about the magic,” he said. “So many times. I just…I was afraid you would be angry.”  
  
“I am angry, Merlin. I’m completely furious.” But somehow, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. “I am also…grateful.”  
  
Merlin let out a faint sound, and Arthur’s hand tightened on his. It suddenly felt dangerous to be so close, but not for the reasons he had expected.  
  
“I couldn’t lose you,” Merlin admitted, his voice soft. He sucked in a sudden breath, as if he’d just remembered something else, and half turned towards Arthur, craning his neck to see his face. “There’s something you should know,” he said. “Before the ambush, when I went down to the stream— ”  
  
“We’ll sort it out in the morning,” Arthur said firmly, deciding for once that any further revelations or catastrophes could wait until he’d had some decent sleep. He leaned down to nose at Merlin’s shoulder, feeling the steady _dub-dub, dub-dub_ of his – magical, traitorous, inexplicably beating – heart. “Together. Now go to sleep.”  
  
Merlin muttered something unintelligible about prats and arses, until Arthur pinched him for his insolence, but for the first time since Arthur had known him, he did as he was told.


End file.
